by Neil Rowland
There must have been a look of astonishment over my gawky features in response. ‘How’d you sort that one out?’
Gorran took his time, walking across the studio, to fetch over a fresh canister of pink paint. He was producing a three-colour image for Turbo Overdrive - a labour of love. ‘Fair play, I found another blinkin way to raise the fucking loot,’ he said.
‘You’re not winding me up?’
‘No bullshit, you don’t need any winding-up, Bottle mate,’ he told me.
Not to be distracted, Marty’s paint grimed hands operated the swinging arm of the wooden printing machine. While he concentrated there, with a grin of pleasure at the task, he also had a knowing look.
With studied force he pulled the arm over, fully across the bed of the machine, to make an impression of colour shapes on the thick paper.
‘Les Phoenix and I might be bloomin rivals in the music industry, but even old Les knows there’s no Battle of the Bands without Star Materials. Fair play, what fun would that be, so in the end he advanced me five hundred blinkin quid, up against my new Austin Sunbeam.’
‘You bet your new car on that?’ I said. ‘You didn’t! But you might lose your wheels, Marty. How can you get us all around town if that happens?’ I objected.
‘Fair play, I an’t finished these posters yet,’ he ordered me. ‘So I bet my little motor against Les that one of my Star Materials acts is gonna win this competition.’
‘Mortal Wound isn’t even talking to each other at the moment.’
‘Fair play Bottle, leave all those blinkin teenage egos to me. That’s my fucking headache as their bloomin agent, tour manager and mentor. Les is offering us five hundred blinkin quid up front, so I can’t refuse his bloomin offer. No bullshit, you don’t get your blinkin New York fucking loft if you can’t put your mortgage on it.’
‘What if you lose?’ I challenged.
‘Straight up, when you drop your blinkin toast on the floor, does it always land up on the wrong fucking side?’ Marty argued.
‘I don’t know. I don’t generally drop my toast. At this moment in time Mortal is just Snot. There’s nobody else in the Wound,’ I pointed out. ‘You might as well drive that little Sunbeam of yours into the scrapyard and get it cubed.’
‘Right, definitely Bottle, you won’t be so blinkin pessimistic after you get your first fat cheque as a music industry copywriter,’ Marty predicted. His eyes popped at me, with a stubbornly optimistic grimace.
‘Well, I don’t know, I can’t imagine myself. We’ll have to see about all that.’
‘Right, definitely, you’ll see. So maybe we can finish off these blinkin Turbo Overdrive posters now. Otherwise, straight up, I’ll have to get back to Les Phoenix and try to bloomin sub-let my fucking council flat as well.’
***
It’d take more than a lick of fresh paint to knock Mortal back to life.
While their competitors rehearsed like Springsteen without a wristwatch, they were occupied bickering with each other. Our chance of winning the contest was more of a non-starter than Dave Crock’s canner.
We didn’t get news updates about Gina’s health or musical development. Would she get any free time from ‘A’ levels to re-join? As for the racy wet dreams about her, I didn’t know where or how far to go.
Except, one afternoon, I decided to take the bus out to Gina’s district. In every sense her mother was shocked by my appearance. She wasn’t touched by my concern for her daughter. Just the usual stuff about how Sour Cat had to work to get into the Conservatoire. If Gina was upstairs at the time of my call, she didn’t catch on or let on. As I walked back down the hill towards town, her mother was spying on me. Either that or she was searching for other punks in the shrubbery. After that I was even more worried about Mortal’s multi-instrumentalist.
On top of that, Nutcase was suffering sleepless nights with Little Nut. Otherwise the baby was doing all right - growing and extending his vocal range. The original Mortal belter wasn’t in any hurry to make a comeback. He was too busy rocking his baby to sleep by (only) humming Clash and Pistols tracks.
Potentially the road ahead was as rocky for them as for Marty’s Austin Sunbeam. I was afraid that handy little car might be parked out alongside Les’s Caddy - a colt tied to a mustang.
Then there was Ob-scene to put to bed. The fanzine had a subtle bias towards S&M acts. The cover price would help to raise extra funds. After the break-in all my articles and interviews had been trashed. I jigsawed the scraps of my work in emulation William Boroughs’s cut up technique. There were fresh interviews to add, and I could rewrite some pieces, thanks to a battered replacement typewriter with arthritic keys, taken from Co-op stores. Writing away amidst the blue fog of Marty keeping me company, I’d be tapping away into the small hours, with that fantasy of being a cross between Dashiell Hammet and Tony Parsons.
Marty had a double lock fitted to our office to prevent any second break-in. It was definitely like locking the stable door after Flying Boot had bolted: or even after Flying Boot had been shot, butchered into portions, deep frozen and fed to Archie.
Like any notorious media magnate Gorran could sometimes behave punkishly towards his own staff. He couldn’t help it. I knew he had financial worries, along with that dodgy bet with Phoenix. On the other hand, nobody was paying Marty for his services; for his time and trouble, even if he enjoyed it. So I was prepared to hammer keys under the midnight oil, for no obvious recompense.
Steve Fenton wasn’t just a cool head with nerves of steel. He was a talented calligrapher, as well as being a semi-retired house breaker and a versatile bass player. Marty got him to do all the headings and sub-headings for our mag by hand. It was superior to the typical photo-copied fanzines that came out. Each example was unique as a fingerprint and the overall result was beautiful. Marty would do a typical punk era ‘cut up and paste’ job on copy, graphics and pictures. After I’d typed up my columns he’d literally stick them on a ‘master page’ using cow gum. Writing and publishing was more tactile in those days.
Steve did his best to help me with writing duties. He’d torture himself, chewing down a pencil, reaching for an opening sentence. He’d finish in a pool of sweat as if he’d played a gig with The Grateful Dead.
Every punk with an amp was waiting for this EMI A&R man. I reckon they had round-the-clock spotters. This stranger was the Top Cat in the alley, and we waited for him and that fat cheque. Indeed, weeks in advance, lads claimed to have seen him disembarking, either at the train or at the bus station. This mythical rock scout was more elusive than George Harrison: more important than the American President. To a lot of us the real President of the USA was Iggy Pop of course. Mr Pop, sir.
Bullshit circulated about lavish prizes and kickbacks on offer. People told about suitcases of payola, boxes of drugs, recording sessions in New York with David Bowie at the controls; and even a Granada TV series with Tony Wilson producing. Marty didn’t offer any counterpoints to dampen these wild rumours, or to contradict the hype that one of his S&M bands was a boot-in. Particularly after a track off the second Turbo Overdrive EP, Bumper Bronco Gel, got a spin on the Kid Jensen evening show on Radio One. This relative success helped to refill the company coffers. Jensen didn’t mention my sleeve notes.
The first edition of Ob-scene finally hit the streets. Marty had good trade links to local printers, so arranged a reasonable price. Bundles of the mag were distributed to local newsagents and other outlets around Nulton and Duncehead, including those owned by the Crock family. That was good going: Morton Treble had it ‘sale or return’ at the Record Shack.
Marty had a master plan for his publishing move. He aimed to be a rival to Sniffin’ Glue, before he went and put IPC out of business. His greatest coup was to get permission to have Ob-scene accepted as the official programme for the Battle of the Bands. This meant that we could sel
l our mag during semi-finals and at the final itself. The only condition attached was that we must cover all bands involved.
That was reasonable (even for a one-man staff) except that I eventually had to write something about Steel Dildo. I didn’t need to have the mind of Umberto Eco to work out their opinions. Dove was furious when he saw we didn’t want to publish anything positive about him. Stan argued that our decision was just censorship. Fortunately Stan didn’t get any say about the mag’s editorial policy. If he or Dove was keen to publicise Dildo, let them publish their own ‘zine. You don’t hand a weapon to somebody intending to kill you or harm you. Do you offer full freedom to people who don’t respect that freedom? Who want to take your freedom away from you and others they disapprove of? Dove sold his party’s newspaper in town, usually on Saturdays. He did eventually bring out a fanzine, called Hard As Nails, which never featured British reggae groups such as Aswad or Steel Pulse, or any alternative viewpoints.
To begin with Snot was fascinated with Hard As Nails. He would read bits out loud, just to annoy me. The smirk soon dropped after he read a vitriolic article about Mortal in issue two. There was a ‘battle of the mags’ before the music final got underway. This created more enmity between Mortal and Dildo. Fortunately for us there were ‘class traitor reformists’ in the town hall, rather than those true to their principles of killing everyone else.
Don’t forget, local music fans were convinced I was a star writer at Music Mail, thanks to Marty’s constant plugging. They believed that a few positive words from me could launch their careers. This put a lot of pressure on me, not to mention social aggravation. I didn’t like to disillusion them. Marty and I had a type of understanding, without needing to puncture our balloon.
Many bands accused me of being biased. If you smooth the ego of one rock star, you will rough up the ego of their rival. They’d complain about alleged misquotes or unflattering angles. A few times a musician or band would even physically threaten me. All the same, all of those would-be superstars wanted to read about him or herself. This type of rivalry or vanity definitely sold more copies of our magazine. In fact Ob-scene began to go like hot cakes after a strike at the bakery. You’d think a lucrative record contract was printed up on the back cover, just needing a signature.
Marty’s fly posters were up on every surface in town - empty shop windows, rough walls and lamp posts, like layers of acne. Roy and I didn’t have to avoid the cops any more. Everything was sanctioned by the council. The cops were instructed (by local politicians and organised criminals) to turn a blind eye to punk antics.
Even Paulie Wellington was writing bits for the Nulton Chronicle, fully testing the idea that any publicity was good publicity.
Despite his rock star ego Paulie didn’t write anything about himself. He justifiably feared that Beer Belly and Backslapper would accuse him of moonlighting and sack him on the spotlight.
Even the stray cats up trees realised that Paulie didn’t have his wits about him.
***
Keeping good time Marty and I called into Nulton & Duncehead FM to be interviewed for once.
Barry’s playlist was as MOR as a three wheeled invalid car. The function of music on Dazzle’s show was to punctuate his toe-curling gabble. We doubted that any punks would be tuned in to Baz’s Traffic Jam Show. It was the producer who had invited us. Baz never scanned the pages of NME or Sounds, not to mention Sniffin’ Glue or Ob-scene. His favourite group of all time was REO Speedwagon or Chicago.
Dazzle’s original claim to rock fame was to have bought Bonnie Tyler a drink at the Wembley Holiday Inn once. Dazzle was a recognisable local figure, hired to open fetes and (one year) to turn on the Christmas lights. The self-obsessed DJ drove about in his distinctive purple 4x4 Jeep with his name sprayed along the side. Naturally he was a fan of Betsy Dandie and had played her indie EP. That was something.
Dazzle’s producer kept us fidgeting in reception. Marty shuffled his bony buttocks on the edge of the seat, chain smoking. We were stranded in the waiting area outside Studio A, listening to weather reports and prattle. Marty and I feared our promo slot would be squeezed out.
Finally, the producer returned and led us towards the studio. There was only five minutes left before Friday evening gardening tips.
Goofing behind his console, as Barbara Dickson faded out, Dazzle hailed us forward to the console. He told us to move in closer towards big fluffy green mics and to put on headphones. Barry sported bushy sideburns and his new Eagles tour tee-shirt. He was spray-tanned, fifty something, with crinkly blue eyes, a big nose and bottle blonde permed hair. He was also prone to a shit-eating music biz grin. His dental work made Barry Gibb resemble Shane McGowan.
Marty knew how to address a radio mic, his reputation behind the decks was legendary and he was no media amateur.
It quickly became obvious to us that Dazzle was paranoidly suspicious of the punk maestro. The producer had made this booking, and Dazzle had zero interest in punk rock, national, local or galactic. Like other normal subjects Dazzle’s awareness of punk came from the Today programme fiasco and tabloid fright and spite. Otherwise he had no curiosity about the music or the street fashion scene.
Dazzle came back live, as a Cliff Richard tuned out. Baz got the fake chit chat with Marty underway and immediately looked alarmed. Dazzle wanted to avoid revealing his own ignorance and indifference, particularly after he understood that Gorran in the studio.
Dazzle’s orange wrinkles took on a panicky expression; and Marty chewed the fat like an Inuit on acid.
‘Super, Marty, me old mate,’ Dazzle interrupted. ‘So what’d you say’s the name of this little band of yours? Turgid Overdrive, ha, ha. Well, hey Fernando, that one’ll stick in the ole lug oles. So you folks at home, or driving home from work, pin back your flaps and get a load of this Turgid Overdrive group, ha ha. Get your glad rags out of the wardrobe, girls! Treat yourself to a Nulton night out. Just listen to your Pilot of the Airwaves, Baz Dazzle, my friends. Have yourselves a jolly night out. Marty’s band’s down there at the Civic Hall for this Battle of the Bands contest. And he’s hoping it’s not his Waterloo, ha ha,’ he chuckled, in that smoky baritone.
‘Ha, ha, it’s been ever so super, Marty. The best of British to you, son. It’s been an absolute pleasure. So have a good one, will you? May the best band win on the night!’
‘Right, definitely Baz, but...’
‘Are you gonna make them a star, Marty?’ Baz concluded our package, cutting out his rival’s microphone, and talking over. ‘Ha, ha, well that’ll be the day!’
After this the studio technician faded in Doctor Hook’s When You’re In Love with a Beautiful Woman. And that was the signal for us to take off our headphones.
‘Right, that’s it boys. Thanks for coming in,’ Dazzle told us. The grin and bonhomie was dropped.
‘Gord elp us,’ Marty protested afterwards, as we exited. ‘I reckon that blinkin wanker’s on the same space ship as bloomin Earth Wind and Fire.’
‘With none of their talent or melodies!’ I agreed.
‘Straight up, you got the picture, cos that Dazzle’s never had to get a crowd up dancing on the blinkin floor. No bullshit, I hope they don’t make that blinkin show poodle one of the fucking judges.’
During the interview I wasn’t allowed a single word in edgewise. That was rough on a celebrity rock writer. However dire our appearance on the radio, it acted as another big plug for the competition.
34. Attacked from Both Sides
Nulton Civic Hall was the largest and most prestigious venue in town. It typically offered a programme of classical concerts, touring theatre, as well as the Christmas panto and even Uri Geller the Israeli spoon bender. Geller’s psychic energy had caused a sensation by stopping the town hall clock dead and even melting off the big hand. There was a team of engineers dangling and swinging off ropes for weeks
, trying to fix the mechanism and then to solder on a new long arm.
Both members of Parliament were invited to the final of the Battle, together with town councillors, the staff of the DHSS, the Nulton Athletic football squad and numerous business and media figures. The politicians came on a jolly, only to get the biggest shock of their lives.
The Civic Hall offered every ‘act’ its own dressing room. Each band had its name pinned to the door like true rock stars. For one night Turbo could strut about like Van Halen. Considering this was the punk period - and many groups had only been together for a few months - that was incredible enough. Mortal Wound was now only Stan Snot, yet he had a changing room to himself. The little guitarist crossed his fingers for a last ditch group reunion.
Solo performers were banned under the contest rules. Stan wanted to get away with that breach, but somebody had shopped him. I knew that it had to be Dove, or one of his legions.
Some old bloke with a greasy comb-over, heavy black glasses, a brown corduroy suit barged in. He was waving around a clipboard, to inform our diminutive axe hero of his dire fate.
‘No solo artistes, son. We’ve already had a complaint about you. I uphold the complaint,’ the man confirmed. ‘No, no, this won’t do.’
‘That lad complaining’s a fascist,’ I objected.
‘Well, this lad’s not going out solo!’
‘Don’t listen to petty complaints!’ Snot whined.
‘You’re not allowed. You know the rules, son. We posted a copy out to the lot of you. That’s that.’
‘So it’s final for the final,’ Snot quipped.
‘Solo not allowed. Read for yourself. This is a competition for new local groups,’ he emphasised, breaking sweat, waving the clipboard.
‘I’ve got a weak chest,’ Stan remarked - satirically.
‘Yes, have a heart, will you?’ I added.
